on the quay and making a trumpet of his hands.

"Shaving!"

"Yes, sir. I told him he ought to come along, but His Highness said he
wasn't going to land looking like a tramp comedian."

By this time General Poineau had explained matters to the band and they
checked the national anthem abruptly in the middle of a bar, with the
exception of the cornet player, who continued gallantly by himself till
a feeling of loneliness brought the truth home to him. An awkward stage
wait followed, which lasted until John was seen crossing the deck, when
there were more cheers, and General Poineau, resuming his
_pince-nez_, brought out the address of welcome again.

At this point Mr. Scobell made his presence felt.

"Glad to meet you, Prince," he said, coming forward. "Scobell's my
name. Shake hands with General Poineau. No, that's wrong. I guess he
kisses your hand, don't he?"

"I'll swing on him if he does," said John, cheerfully.

Mr. Scobell eyed him doubtfully. His Highness did not appear to him to
be treating the inaugural ceremony with that reserved dignity which we
like to see in princes on these occasions. Mr. Scobell was a business
man. He wanted his money's worth. His idea of a Prince of Mervo was
something statuesquely aloof, something--he could not express it
exactly--on the lines of the illustrations in the Zenda stories in the
magazines--about eight feet high and shinily magnificent, something